


This House is Full of Noise

by thisprettywren



Series: Ingenium [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-02
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That was how he’d got into this spot in the first place; he did as Sherlock asked of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Potential triggers: see notes at end for warnings (spoilery)
> 
> Many thanks to the always-wonderful [gelishan](http://gelishan.livejournal.com) for hacking this to pieces (in a nice way!) with her beta knives, the forever-lovely [misanthropyray](misanthropyray.livejournal.com) for endless conversations, britpicking, and general awesomeness; and to [Ivy Blossom](http://ivyblossom.livejournal.com) for being the emotional center of this thing. They have spent far too many hours working on this, and any remaining errors are 100% mine and usually committed over loud protests.

When he opened his eyes he was lying on his stomach; hard surface there, grit under his cheek. Arms trapped behind him, bite of steel at his wrists: handcuffs, then, and if his head hadn’t been so appallingly bright with pain he might have been able to recall why.

His first thought was, as always in such situations, _Sherlock_ , but of course: no, not this time. Not for years, in fact. A lifetime.

John groaned. Being kidnapped was, he supposed, a bit like riding a bicycle; it wasn’t as though it were possible to forget how, and he’d had his share of practise. His head hurt—likely an aftereffect of whatever he’d been given to knock him out—and his hands seemed to be tethered to something behind him. The room he was in was small and dim, mostly empty, a single window high on the wall that didn’t seem to be letting in any external light. He shifted, trying to see the rest of the space, and the bright lights snapped on overhead.

He recognised the voice immediately; would have known it anywhere, rage and adrenaline rushing up his spine in a hot wave at the sound of it.

“So good to see you again, Johnny boy, it really has been far too long. No, don’t get up.” Jim Moriarty was a few yards away, slouching against a wall, head bent forward, eyes dark and shining with eagerness. So surreal: everything had changed, nothing had changed. “I’d hate for you to trouble yourself on my account.”

The hammering of John’s pulse drove a shooting pain into his skull. Moriarty pushed himself off the wall and John stiffened at his approach; when he crouched down and reached out a hand toward him John tried to pull his shoulder away, but Moriarty just gripped it firmly and manhandled him upright. One way or another he ended up in a seated position, legs crossed in front of him, cuffed hands still anchored to the floor.

Moriarty moved until he was directly in front of John and squatted down, resting his elbows on his splayed knees. “You always were a great deal of fun, John,” he said, a wide grin splitting his mouth. John swallowed against the nausea rising in his stomach. “We could have had a good time of it ourselves, you and I. I always was rather _fond_ of you. Too bad your loyalties were spoken for so _dreadfully_ quickly.”

John considered, briefly, spitting in his face; settled for glaring, instead. He still felt weak from the knock-out drugs and had no idea—literally no idea—what possible interest Moriarty could still have in him.

When he spoke he aimed for bored detachment, and thought he almost got there. “Still on this, then, are you? Bit late, I should think, at this point. This little obsession of yours is bordering on unhealthy.”

“ _Unhealthy_ , doctor? Oh, I do rather like that.” He exhaled, and he was close enough that John could feel the movement of the air across his face. Moriarty squinted, ducking his head in just that little bit closer, and John had to suppress the urge to flinch away. “Not so late as all that. You’re wondering what I could possibly want with you, so long after your dear friend’s death.”

 _Christ_ , that was uncanny. “As I said,” he responded evenly, “unhealthy.”

Moriarty laughed. “Fair enough. Disappointingly unobservant, but fair. Do try to pay attention, Johnny. The devil _is_ in the details, after all.”

John gritted his teeth and clenched his trapped hands into fists. “You’d know.”

Moriarty’s face grew abruptly, icily serious. When he spoke his voice was low, steady, full of menace. “So would you.” He pushed back and stood, moving away toward the door, his voice suddenly bright and mobile again. “Although I _am_ afraid,” he said, pushing it open, “you’ve missed rather a big one, this time.”

John’s first thought was that Moriarty had simply indulged his obsession with a remarkable likeness: the same height, the lean build, the shock of dark curls against the pale skin. Paler than in John’s memory; sharper edges to the bones in his face. Then he took two steps forward and the way he moved was just the same, the same slant to the shoulders, undeniably so, and John hissed in a breath. _Sherlock._

John wasn’t always the cleverest bloke in the room (certainly not in that room, at that moment) but somewhere between medicine and military he’d got a fairly firm grasp on _dead_ , a pretty solid understanding of _not coming back_.

And yet.

It was impossible (no, he amended, and in his head it was Sherlock’s voice: _improbable_ ). Everything had changed, nothing had changed.

 _Well, this is a turn-up_. The last time they’d seen each other. Christ.

John ’s mouth was abruptly dry and he couldn’t seem to get enough air to speak; didn’t even know what he’d begin to say, in any case. It was a relief, of course, and it was wretched, because as glad (and that wasn’t the word for it at all; his vocabulary woefully ill-equipped for such things) as he was to see him—he’d thought _never again_ , didn’t deserve to be so lucky—the fact that Sherlock was standing there was proof that something had gone dreadfully, overwhelmingly wrong.

Sherlock had scarcely even glanced at him, all his attention on Moriarty, who looked at his watch and whispered words John couldn’t quite hear.

Sherlock _beamed_ at him.“Thank you,” he said, and it was the same low voice he’d always had, John’s stomach clenching at the sound of it.

Moriarty’s reply was immediate, something automatic born of long practice: “Always, pet,” and John bristled at the dangerous familiarity of it, unwelcome understanding slamming through him like fire. _Not so late—_

Moriarty inclined his head in John’s direction and spoke to Sherlock again, almost benevolently. “Go on, then,” he urged, “he’s all yours. You do want to _see_ , don’t you?”

Sherlock gave a tight nod and turned his attention to John, began moving toward him. He was barefoot on the cement floor and why, _why_ was John noticing things like that, now of all times?

Sherlock squatted down in front of him, just as Moriarty had done, bouncing on his heels and and reaching out a hand to cup the side of his face, and John turned his cheek toward its impossible (improbable) warmth, relief flooding through his system ( _careful_ , said his training; _not through it yet_ ) at the undeniable physicality of his presence, at the familiarity and the shock of it.

(Three long, unbearable years; long enough, unbearable enough for him, and for Sherlock - _oh, Christ_ , his stomach roiling with unease, sharp as acid.)

(Three years, and never once had he thought-- had _anyone_ thought-- 

It was no good telling himself they couldn't have known.)

John finally managed to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth, though his voice when it came was more like a croak. “Sherlock,” he said, “what. What is this.”

As questions went it was woefully inadequate, and it was all John had.

“It’s all right, _leannán_ ,” Sherlock said, “I’m just going to take a look.”

Now that he’d started to speak John found he couldn’t stop. “Oh god, it’s so good to— we didn’t know, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. But it’s all right, I’ll… it’s going to be all right.” It wouldn’t be, though; it couldn’t. It hit John like a wave: anger blooming up his spine (at Moriarty, Mycroft—bloody _Mycroft_ , how had _he_ missed this, _of all the_ — and at himself most of all), spilling hot and bitter through his blood. He tugged at the cuffs, trying to shift closer; didn’t recognise the sound of his own breathing. “ _Sherlock_.” It sounded broken, even to him.

Sherlock, for his part, acted as though he hadn’t even heard. He’d drawn back his hand—paler than John remembered, metacarpals and knuckles more pronounced, the nails ragged and torn— and was now simply watching John dispassionately, holding himself perfectly still.

“Are you ready, pet?” Moriarty said behind him, and Sherlock turned just slightly to look over his shoulder and give that same little nod. “You’re sure you don’t want to play with him first?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked back to John and he frowned as though considering. “I think not,” he said at last, eyes on John’s face. “Unnecessary.”

Moriarty approached, dropping a rolled-up bundle into Sherlock’s hands and bending swiftly at the waist to give Sherlock a chaste kiss on the top of his head as he passed, and it took John a moment to realise that the sound he’d just heard had come out of his own throat. Then Moriarty was behind him, hands on John’s wrists above the metal of the cuffs.

“ _Sebastian,_ ” Moriarty growled, and an unfamiliar shadow passed behind Sherlock’s eyes. “Focus. Stay with me.” Sherlock gave a tight nod in response.

John first heard, then felt, the snapping of his finger below the first knuckle, a white-hot jolt of pain that caught him totally by surprise and forced the breath from his lungs.

Then John was being yanked backwards, forced down, his cuffed hands and the ring they were anchored to digging painfully into his low back, bright stars of pain in his vision at the pressure against the fresh break. It ended with Moriarty kneeling on his shoulders and Sherlock sitting on his thighs, pinning him. He fought and kicked instinctively but all he managed to do was wear himself out, his muscles still feeling like jelly. He couldn’t seem to think properly.

“Sherlock, what are you—“ No flash of awareness in those pale eyes, and he had a scalpel in his hand. “ _Sherlock._ ” Nothing.

He must be processing things a bit slowly, John thought, because he was just now registering that the scalpel Sherlock was holding was one of the large ones used in autopsies.

“Go on, then, pet,” Moriarty urged, behind John’s head. Sherlock gave him a tight, quick smile and began using the blade to cut away the buttons of John’s shirt, one by one.

John’s thoughts, when they formed words at all, were just strings of denials, searing threats. _Oh god, no, fuck, no_ , and if Moriarty leaned any closer John would tear out his throat with his teeth. _“Sherlock_ ,” he heard himself say, over and over again, “Sherlock, stop, what are you doing, _stop_ ,” because whatever had happened to him ( _was happening_ , his brain insisted ruthlessly) this was part of it, and he couldn’t let it continue.

Sherlock pulled the scalpel back and reached out to run his thumb over John’s cheek. “Quiet, _leannán_ ,” he said to John; then, more sharply, to Moriarty: “Shut him up, will you?”

Moriarty shoved a coarse cloth into John’s mouth and pulled up hard on his jaw, trapping it there and forcing his head back so that John could scarcely see his own heaving chest at the bottom edge of his vision. Sherlock pushed John’s shirt open and shifted against his thighs, drawing his knees up and settling into a crouch. He ran the tip of his finger along John’s scarred shoulder, following the topography of the skin there, and John could feel himself shaking under the touch. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, the expression on his face intent, almost meditative, running the scalpel lightly along his ribs as though considering where to start.

“It’s his heart we’re interested in, pet,” Moriarty said, and Sherlock almost rolled his eyes, the gesture so familiar it hurt.

“Of course his heart, I’m just deciding the most efficient way to—“ he shook his head as though to clear it. “Just let me work,” he snarled, and bent forward to press the tip of the scalpel into the skin over John’s breastbone.

John howled—more from adrenaline and rage than anything else; it didn’t hurt that much, not yet—and tried to move away. Got nowhere. Sherlock pressed harder and dragged the point of the scalpel down carefully, one inch, two. With his arms still behind him the skin was already taut, and it parted easily under its own tension. John could feel tears in his eyes, could hear himself mumbling into the cloth pressed in his mouth, wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say.

Sherlock’s eyes were cold, trained on the blade, avoiding John’s face, and nothing would ever be right again. He let his own eyes fall closed.

Sherlock paused and used his left hand to cup the side of John’s head, digging his thumbnail into the underside of John’s jaw until he dragged his eyelids up and they were looking at each other again. “I need you to hold very still for me now,” he said quietly, “like a good little soldier,” and John could scarcely hear the words over his own shuddering breath, the thudding of his heart. He didn’t understand what these two might be playing at ( _not a game, not at all_ ) but it was Sherlock asking and John found he couldn’t refuse him (not ever, not now). Found that the rest of it mattered less.

That was how he’d got into this spot in the first place; he did as Sherlock asked of him.

 _Right,_ he thought, _might as well see it through, then_ , and held… very still.

There was a sudden explosion of movement and sound above him: a wet gasping; a shifting of the pressure pinning John’s shoulders and easing up on the pull under his jaw; a spray of red across Sherlock’s face that extended down his throat to his chest.

Then Sherlock was standing, edging away, his shadowed eyes fixed on something behind John’s head, and it took John a moment to realise that what he was looking at was the body of Jim Moriarty, his now-lifeless face scarcely a foot away from John’s own, his blood beginning to seep outward from his open mouth.

John used his tongue to push the gag out of his mouth, coughed, dragged in several deep, heaving breaths against the burn in his chest. The words tumbled up his throat and over his tongue without conscious thought: “Sherlock, thank God, look, let me take you home, if you’ll just—“

Sherlock crossed the room in four long strides and dropped heavily to his knees, one hand fisted in John’s hair, the other pressed bruisingly against his mouth. The skin around his eyes was tight with strain. “Quiet,” he snapped, “you mustn’t talk, just _shut up_.”

John nodded mutely against his hand but Sherlock didn’t remove it, his gaze sliding over John’s shoulder to where Moriarty’s still body lay on the floor. “He’ll hear you. You mustn’t—“ Then, more quietly: “Don’t listen to him. He lies.”

John nodded again, felt sick. Sherlock’s hands were shaking. He pulled them back, balling them into fists which he pressed against his thighs.

“It’ll be fine if you just stay quiet,” Sherlock whispered, and the words _He’s heard that before_ surfaced from somewhere below the swirl of of emotion threatening to overwhelm John’s thoughts. He reached for him without thinking and was brought up short by the handcuffs, and it was all just _too much_ , he couldn’t—

Sherlock’s hand on his face again, thumbing away tears he hadn’t even noticed, torn nails rough on his skin. Sherlock gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “Can’t do anything about those, I’m afraid, but it’s all right,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful. “You’ll be okay.” Sherlock frowned at the moisture on his fingers. “If they’re real he—” A tightening of the muscles in his jaw. “Stops. He can always tell if they’re fake, but these are—” A shaky inhale. “Well. You’re okay.”

John thought his ribs might actually shatter from the pressure in his chest. “Sherlock, you have to let me go so I can—” He rattled the cuffs behind him in frustration. “Please help me,” he said, his voice ragged and breathy, “please, just… let me take you home.”

Sherlock’s eyes went cold. “I am helping you,” he said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “We can’t go; it's not time yet and you have to _shut up_.” He grabbed the gag where it had fallen to the floor and shoved it back into John’s mouth.

John bit down instinctively, choking on his surprise. Sherlock stood abruptly and began pacing, twice across the narrow room, scrubbing his hands through his hair. He stopped abruptly and turned to face John again, and the expression on his face was softer, unfocused. “He’s right,” he said softly, almost sadly, and John had the distinct impression that he wasn’t the one Sherlock was speaking to, “I really can’t be trusted.”

Then he spun on his heel and John had just enough time to register the line of rust-coloured stains on the back of his shirt—dried blood—before he was gone, closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

John spit out the gag and continued to call after Sherlock for as long as he could make his voice carry the sounds. There was no response, no sign of movement or life beyond the closed door, and when John was finally forced to fall silent it was with a sense of overwhelming defeat.

Moriarty’s blood had seeped out into a widening pool that was soaking into the remains of John’s shirt, drying and tacky in his hair. He spared a glance back at the body: close enough to touch if his arms had been free, the scalpel still protruding from his open mouth, a shock of bright, arterial red down his white shirt. The blood seemed to be everywhere at once; he felt a shudder of revulsion and tugged violently at the handcuffs—those, too, slick with it—in a rush of adrenaline-fuelled panic, forced himself still and resolved not to look again.

What he needed was to focus, to come up with a plan for getting them both out of there. If he could get Sherlock home, he told himself, it would be okay.

It wouldn’t. How could it, when he’d _left him_ , when he’d been so stupid, when all of them had just accepted, hadn’t realised. And Sherlock had been—where; here? John looked around at the dingy room and shuddered at the thought—waiting. How long before he’d realised, lost himself, how long before—

John could feel the stinging heat of tears starting behind his eyes and bit down hard on his lip. It was really just another brand of failure, he told himself, letting himself get emotional now (and wasn’t _that_ a laugh; how could he not?), letting himself get distracted. He needed to get Sherlock home. Sherlock needed John to get him home.

* * *

John waited for what felt like an eternity, very deliberately _not_ thinking about what a true eternity of waiting would feel like; the adrenaline crash, when it came, hit him hard. He supposed he must have drifted off because when he opened his eyes Sherlock was standing against the wall near the door, watching him through narrowed eyes.

John began immediately to try to push himself up to sitting, ignoring the pain in his hand. “Sherlock, look, if you’ll just—“

Sherlock held up a hand, and John fell silent and waited while Sherlock took a deep breath, let it out like it hurt. “John.” There was a long pause during which John was almost afraid to breathe himself, then Sherlock’s voice again, lower: “ _John_.”

“Yeah,” John answered foolishly. “Hi.”

Sherlock moved quickly, bare feet silent on the cement floor, and crouched down in front of him. There was a frown of concentration creasing his forehead. “John,” he said again, reaching out to run his thumb down the side of John’s face, down his neck, over his collarbone and the scar below it. The corners of his mouth twitched as his eyes reached the fresh wound running down John’s sternum; he reached out a pale hand and brushed his fingertips tentatively along the edge of it. John drew in a sharp breath through his nose but held himself perfectly still, determined not to pull away.

After a long moment Sherlock shook his head slightly and moved until he was behind John, fiddling with the cuffs. John turned his head to watch him, dark curls bent low in concentration, and it was only then that he noticed that Moriarty’s body was missing.

“Did you, ah, move—“

“I put him—“ Sherlock began, broke off with a shake of his head. “Upstairs,” he continued quickly, his voice tight with strain. “He’s— he’s shorter than me, he… fits better.” A pause, then, thoughtfully: “Wasn’t a very nice man,” and John could almost have laughed at that, if he could have seen Sherlock’s face, but as it was the angle was all wrong and everything still felt too uncertain and exposed.

One side of the cuffs slipped open and John’s arms fell forward, the heavy chain slithering to the floor with a thud. He groaned at the wrenching movement through stiff muscles and felt Sherlock freeze behind him. John turned and reached for him, instinctively. “No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” he started, and Sherlock actually flinched away from his hand.

 _Right, okay._

He had to remind himself to breathe. Really entirely counterproductive to fall apart now.

He dropped his arm back to his side. Sherlock swallowed and shut his eyes for a moment, steeling himself, then dragged them open with a look of determination on his face.

“The other one,” he said, and John extended his hand carefully, slowly. This lock gave more easily, and when it dropped off altogether Sherlock stood quickly, folded the safety pin he’d been using back into something like its original shape, and held it out to him.

John blinked blankly at it until Sherlock’s expression changed and he dropped the pin as though it were hot. He took a long step back and John had to consciously stop himself from closing the distance.

“Sherlock,” he said, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to meet his, the expression in them one of barely-restrained panic. “Okay, it’s okay, let’s just get you the hell out of here. Is there anyone else here?”

Sherlock’s eyes slid away toward the corner where the wall met an unfinished part of the floor, then back to John’s. “Not anymore,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

“Good,” John said, trying to keep his tone calm, even, reassuring; thinking he might almost have managed it. “That’s good. Come upstairs; it’s time to go.”

* * *

When they made it up to the ground floor Sherlock made a beeline for one of the wooden kitchen chairs and all but fell into it. He sat with his spine ramrod-straight, staring down at his hands where he pressed them flat on the table, fingers spread wide. Every so often one of them twitched slightly.

The last thing John wanted was to leave Sherlock alone, but it was necessary. Necessary, and logical, and it felt like cruelty. He would have liked, very much, to smash something. His hand clenched against the side of his leg.

“I’ll hurry,” he said to the back of Sherlock’s head. There was no response.

It took John a while to find a phone; no landline, but what he eventually turned up was his own mobile. It was still in his coat, which he found in a duffel in the upstairs hallway, wincing at the pain in his broken finger as he dragged the zip open. The phone even had a bit of charge left, though not much after so many days. Fourteen missed calls from Lestrade.

He hadn’t spoken to Mycroft since he’d moved out of Baker Street, but the number was still in his contact list. He stood at the window and pushed the curtain aside (early morning sunlight, grass and trees to the horizon, no other houses in sight), dialled with his thumb.

“Doctor Watson,” came the smooth voice in his ear after only two rings. “To what do I owe this honour?“

John swallowed, glanced at his hand. Steady. “I’m here with your brother,” he said, “and no, before you ask, I’m not precisely sure where ‘here’ is, but it seems—“

“One moment,” Mycroft said, and the line went silent; when he returned, there was an unfamiliar note of uncertainty in his voice: “We’re tracing the call. If this is some sort of joke, you’ll do well to know that I find it highly unamusing.”

“It really isn’t,” John bit out. “Look, he’s… not well.” It was, John thought, an understatement on Mycroft’s own level. “We’re going to need a hospital, and the police, but—“ he swallowed. “There’s a body.”

Mycroft hissed in a breath. “His doing or yours?”

“His. But I really don’t think— I mean, he’s not in any state for questioning. Best to avoid that, if possible.”

“I see.” The trace, Mycroft informed him with an air of exaggerated detachment, had shown that they were currently in the Bern canton of Switzerland. “My own authority in that region is limited, but you’d be surprised how many favours— well, no matter. Consider it arranged.”

John breathed a sigh of relief down the phone. His hand, where he gripped it, had started to shake. No time for that yet, though, and after a moment it stopped again.

“I’ll send one of my men ahead and be there myself as soon as I can. And John,” Mycroft said anxiously as they were about to disconnect. “Do take care. Of him, and… and of yourself.” He paused, then added, in a voice that sounded tired, “Please,” and disconnected the call.

John closed his eyes and let his head against the wall, breathed slowly and deliberately. _Right,_ he told himself. _This is the easy part_ , and knew it for the lie it was. Still, his training told him he was doing all the right things, and if some part of his mind disagreed… well. He’d deal with that later.

He made his way back downstairs to the ground floor. Sherlock hadn’t moved. John edged around the table, pulled out a chair and sat carefully. Sherlock didn’t raise his eyes, still looking down at his own hands splayed on the table.

“I called your brother,” he offered, carefully, and after a moment Sherlock’s gaze slid forward and up to meet John’s own. “He’s sending someone to get you—us—out of here. To a hospital.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth tightened, briefly; he gave a tiny little nod, didn’t speak. He hardly seemed present, like he might slip right down through the floor and disappear. John was seized by the overwhelming urge to grab him and just— hold him there, reassure himself. Instead he slid his uninjured hand forward across the table, offering it, testing the waters; _come on, do something_ , he thought, _please_ , but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, made no move toward it.

Sherlock still had a line of Moriarty’s blood along his cheek and down his shirt, and John recalled the stains he’d seen on his back. He looked down at his own ruined clothing. “We should get cleaned up,” he said, feeling helpless. “Is there, ah—“

For a long moment the was no indication that Sherlock had even heard him, but finally he gave another nod and pushed himself back from the table and wordlessly made his way back the way John had just come, bare feet silent on the tiled floor. John followed him up the stairs and to a closed door, behind which lay a bedroom. A perfectly ordinary-looking bedroom with a large four-poster bed and two heavy wardrobes standing against the wall, bare wood floorboards. A perfectly ordinary-looking bedroom with no curtains and heavy bars on the outside of the windows. John felt his hand clench reflexively.

Sherlock opened one of the wardrobe doors to reveal a long line of neat suits and shirts and trousers. He selected a shirt that looked identical to the one he was wearing, then turned back to face John, his forehead creased into a frown.

“You can have one of mine,” he said, “but he won’t like—“ The frown deepened.

“It doesn’t matter,” John broke in quickly. “Is there a loo? I should wash—” he waved his hand, indicating his own chest and Sherlock’s face.

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said absently, grabbed another shirt, held it out to him, shut the wardrobe door and padded back out into the hallway.

Sherlock switched on the overhead light, and it cast sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the hollows around his bones and the dark circles under his eyes. John filled the sink with warm water, and caught sight of himself in the mirror; he looked a right mess, hair matted with blood, his chest and neck stained with it. The wound on his sternum had clotted but he knew it would open up again as soon as he tried to clean it; it would need stitches.

“You first,” he said to Sherlock, keeping his words carefully even; he needed to see and really didn’t want to. “If you’ll take your shirt off, please.”

Sherlock began working the buttons, automatically, without comment, and John’s mind shied away from the fact that the Sherlock he’d known three years ago wouldn’t have acquiesced so willingly, from the thoughts of when and why and—

 _Stop that_ , he told himself firmly. There would be time for that later; for the moment, he had a job to do.

Sherlock let the shirt slide backward off his arms and pool on the floor, dropped his gaze to his feet, and John had to bite his lip to contain the noise he wanted to make at the state of his torso. There was the yellow-green of a fading bruise along the side of Sherlock’s left ribcage, larger than two of John’s handspans, and neat lines of silvery scars extending in a row across his stomach. He was thin—too thin, even for him, shadows under the shelf of his ribcage and his trousers hanging off his hipbones—the veins standing out blue along his abdomen and the insides of his arms (deep bruises above his left elbow, fresh, almost black). The illusion of professional detachment, cataloguing the evidence as though recording it in a chart. _Oh, God_.

Sherlock held perfectly still while John wet a flannel and set about scrubbing the blood from the skin of his face and neck. Neither of them said a word until it was done.

John took a step away, his knees seemingly turned to water. “Let me look at your back,” he said, with all the professional steadiness he could muster. Sherlock didn’t raise his eyes, just hugged his elbows against his sides and turned slowly, watching his own feet shuffle against the tile.

 _And that,_ John thought dizzily, _explains the bloodstains._

There were long lines there, too, fresher than the ones on his stomach, running downward from his scapulae until they disappeared under the waistband of his trousers, some still shiny and pink with newly-healed skin. More disturbing, though, was the neat column of knotted scar tissue along his spine—the round puckered remnants of burns, one over each of his prominent vertebrae—starting at at the top of his thoracic and extending halfway down his lumbar. The marks got fresher as they went lower down, perfectly round with a raised figure in the centre.

John leaned in to examine them, reaching out a hand instinctive but not quite letting his fingers touch Sherlock’s back. The raised figure was unmistakable: a small, capital M.

Sherlock’s voice, when it came, was so low it was scarcely more than a whisper. “It’s— he has a ring,“ he offered, and it sounded like an apology.

A sudden hot flood of rage up his spine and John’s vision narrowed down to a single point, the lowest burn, still half-blistered and angry-red, his pulse thrumming so hot in his veins and fingertips and chest that he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, he was going to _kill_ whoever—but no, not _whoever_ , Jim bloody Moriarty, and he was dead already and there was nothing he could do, it was _wrong, backward, all wrong_ , not enough air in the room or in his chest and he had to _get out_ —

They ended, one way or another, in the hallway, John sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the wall. Sherlock’s voice cut through the roaring in his ears. “— all right?” he heard, and when John’s vision cleared the first thing he saw were those pale eyes, shadowed with concern, inches from his own.

Sherlock was crouched in front of of him, grasping the sides of John’s head with both his hands. “Yeah, fine,” John breathed, because it was true in the ways that counted (the smell of Sherlock’s skin, sweat and dust and the coppery tang of blood but underneath still the same as in his memory). And he hadn’t meant to—knew it was a bad idea, knew what Sherlock needed just then was time and space and a chance to make his own bloody choices—but he reached up and grabbed his wrist, wrapped his fingers around it (the insistent rhythm of Sherlock’s pulse under his fingertips), held on.

Sherlock tensed as though to draw away, his brows creasing down into a frown, and for a long moment the press of anxiety in John’s chest was so great that he forgot entirely how to breathe—

Then Sherlock was allowing himself to be pulled, folding forward until his head was on John’s shoulder, one hand fisted in the remains of John’s shirt, just holding on. “John,” he said quietly, “I don’t—” He broke off, tried again. “How long.”

 _Three years_ , John thought, and: _too long_ , but he couldn’t quite say either of those, chose the other way instead. “Soon,” he offered, twining his free hand in Sherlock’s hair, the pain in his broken finger a welcome anchor. “We’ll be home soon.”

There was a shuddering breath against his chest; it felt like his own.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, voice low and quiet. John clung to the pulse under his fingertips, welcome and persistent like a promise.


	3. Chapter 3

They sat in silence for a long time. Sherlock had made no move to pull his hand away so John kept a hold on him, counting the beats of Sherlock’s pulse and watching his bare toes curl and uncurl against the wood of the floor.

They could wait like this, John decided. Everything was still a long way from right, of course, but it was at least better. There was space to breathe. It was, for the moment, enough.

Until, abruptly, it _wasn’t_. John felt a shudder run through Sherlock’s shoulders and felt him begin to fidget as though about to push himself away.

When he spoke, his voice was strained. “It’s too loud, I can’t.” He broke off; it sounded as though he couldn’t get enough air in his chest. Then, finally, in a tone that seemed almost embarrassed—a sliver of misguided, hesitant self-consciousness that made John’s own chest ache—he added, “I need you to talk to me.”

John could almost have laughed at that, at the utter brilliant absurdity of it; of all the things that needed to be done, all the impossibilities, and the one thing Sherlock was asking was the thing he could absolutely do, without question. Three years’ worth of words on the tip of his tongue.

Oh, but even those were dangerous. Three years’ worth of words and so many of them dependent on Sherlock’s own absence, evidence of the unrelenting normality left in its wake. He could have told Sherlock about the look on Mrs. Hudson’s face when he’d finally moved out of Baker Street; about the thick envelope Sally had handed him a few weeks after the funeral, photocopies of her own case notes in which she’d recorded evidence of some of Sherlock’s more helpful contributions; about the monthly, then yearly, pints with Lestrade, but— no. There would be plenty of time for those things, later. John took a deep breath, steadying himself, and started with the hardest, most grounding, most _essential_ of the available options.

“Well, you’ve probably worked out that Mycroft would have kept tabs on me….”

* * *

John was recounting an amusing patient anecdote from the surgery when he heard the crunch of tyres and the slamming of car doors in the drive.

Sherlock hadn’t spoken in what may well have been hours. He was sitting with his knees drawn up, eyes closed in concentration, listening intently to John’s words. John might have thought him asleep, but at the noises outside his eyes snapped open and he flapped an impatient hand, waving John silent. They listened together to the sound of knocking on the door. One look at the expression on Sherlock’s face was enough to convince John it would be better not to leave him to go answer it, and before long there was a loud crash as it was forced open.

“Mycroft did say he’d send someone,” John said as the sounds of footsteps and heavily-accented English floated up the stairs and, in their midst, a familiar voice, tense and clipped. “Come on, then.” He gave Sherlock a quick smile and squeezed his hand in reassurance. Sherlock’s eyes had turned inward again.

They made their way downstairs to find Anthea surrounded by half a dozen members of the canton’s police. She looked up from her Blackberry when they entered, eyes flicking from John to Sherlock and back again, and it occurred to John what they must have looked like: Sherlock, still a shock despite the fact that Mycroft would have told her, for obvious reasons; John himself, bloody and filthy and still only half-dressed. He tugged the sides of his shirt together, suddenly self-conscious.

“John,” Anthea said by way of greeting and turned back to her phone. John thought, with a nearly overwhelming sense of gratitude, that Mycroft had sent the one person who wasn’t likely to fuss. He’d never been so glad to see a familiar face ( _not true_ , he amended immediately, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s wrist).

The sharp intake of breath behind him jolted him back to the reality of the situation; they weren’t out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. They weren’t even out of that bloody _house_.

“There’s an ambulance outside,” Anthea said without looking up, “if you’d like to have yourselves seen to first.”

John nodded. He really ought to have his chest cleaned and stitched properly. Behind him, Sherlock was standing perfectly still, looking toward the kitchen, visible lines of tension across his shoulders and in the lines of his face.

“I think we’ll do for now,” he said, feeling helpless. _It will all be more manageable if we can just get out of here_ , he told himself, and almost believed it.

Anthea caught his eye and quirked her mouth into something approaching a smile. “Mr. Holmes says to tell you he was anticipating that, and if you’re in need of any attention, to make sure not to put it off unnecessarily.” Her gaze moved down to his chest and back up to meet his eye; John straightened his shoulders and held his ground. “Otherwise, just do what you can to get the detectives the information they need and we should be able to relocate you shortly.”

“What information is it, exactly,” John began, and was interrupted by a sudden band of pressure around his wrist. He glanced down to see Sherlock’s long fingers there, wrapped tightly enough he imagined he could feel his bones grind together. When he looked up again, there was a woman standing behind Anthea. She was blonde, blue-eyed, and not in uniform. Anthea introduced her as Inspector Ess (“she prefers the English title to my German accent,” she said with a curl of amusement in her tone).

“We have found a body,” Ess said in clipped, accented English, her piercing gaze trained on John’s face. “My understanding is that you can tell us how it came to be here.” Sherlock’s hand clenched convulsively against John’s wrist. Something must have shown on John’s face, because Ess’ tone softened. “It is also my understanding that it was self-defence. Even so, if you would accompany me….” She turned and moved away; on Anthea’s encouraging half-smile, John followed. Sherlock didn’t relax his grip on John’s wrist, but didn’t try to hold him back.

They came into a large room at the end of the hallway, the door of which John had found locked during his early search for a phone. It might once have been an office, but the contents indicated that it had been turned into some sort of chemistry lab; there were two long tables littered with pipettes and beakers and scales, an expensive-looking microscope perched amid the jumble. Three of the Swiss police were clustered in the corner, looking at something on the floor. Sherlock’s eyes, when John glanced at him, were wide and glassy, as though whatever he was seeing wasn’t the scene before them. “It’s okay,” John whispered to him. Sherlock gave a small, jerky nod in acknowledgment, and didn’t speak.

Ess waved her hand and the officers moved aside. “If you’ll be so kind,” she said, gaze turned this time on Sherlock, and John edged forward.

There, set into the wooden floor, was the sort of recessed alcove frequently used for storing suitcases. The lid was propped open, revealing a space that was about four feet on each side and probably about that deep. At the bottom lay Moriarty’s body, curled so that his forehead almost touched his knees to accommodate the cramped quarters. His shirt and skin were both still covered in his blood, now dried dark.

Sherlock was gripping John’s wrist so hard he thought he’d lose feeling in his hand. “That’s him,” John said. “I know him as Jim Moriarty; Mycroft Holmes can no doubt confirm whether that might have been an alias, or whether he might have been living here under another one.” He had, John thought wryly, had a bit too much time to watch procedural dramas during his time in Cornwall. Sherlock’s eyes were shut and he was taking quick, shallow breaths through his nose.

Ess nodded perfunctorily, as though John were simply confirming information she already had (and doubtless Mycroft had told her precisely who he was, John supposed). One of the other officers beckoned her over and she crouched beside the door; the officer lifted Jim’s hand and indicated something on the walls of the recess. They exchanged a few words in German before Ess turned to address John. “He was dead when he was placed in here?” John nodded, and she frowned at him, adding, “There are scratches—“

She broke off just as John felt Sherlock release his wrist. There was a crash behind him and John turned to see Sherlock holding the jagged edges of a smashed flask. He who was standing with feet apart, shoulders set and menacing, lips drawn back in a snarl, looking for all the world as though he were about to launch himself at the two officers standing against the wall. John saw them starting to for their weapons—just readying themselves, the threat not quite sure enough to justify drawing them—and tensed in preparation for some sort of intervention. He could put himself in the way, or—

— Sherlock tossed the glass down onto the pile in front of him with a disgusted-sounding sigh, and everyone in the room breathed a sigh of relief, the officers letting their hands fall back to their sides.

“Sir, if you would—“ the brown-haired male officer began, taking a step forward, and there was another crash as Sherlock swept several pipette stands and a lamp to the floor in one big swoop.

Then it was all a jumble of motion and noise, Sherlock, glassy-eyed, knocking more things to the floor while the officers shouted at him to stop, and couldn’t they see their presence wasn’t helping? John clenched his fist in frustration.

“Let me—“ he said to Ess, having to shout himself to be heard over the noise. “Get out of here.” Sherlock had cut himself, a bright trickle of blood running down his wrist to soak into the cuff of his shirt. When there was no response from any of the officers John turned to Anthea, who was hanging back in the doorway. “Get them _out_ ,” he shouted to her, and if she responded it was lost under the sound of the microscope crashing to the floor.

 _Bugger it,_ he thought. He wasn’t going to let him cut himself to ribbons, and he certainly wasn’t going to stand around while the officers decided he was a threat to more than just the glassware. He lunged for Sherlock—glass crunching under the soles of his shoes and _damn_ , Sherlock was still barefoot, the idiot—and grabbed his hands, drawing them together in his own, clasping them tightly to stop them shaking. Sherlock shot him a wild-eyed look and tried to pull away, but John held firm, ignoring the pain from his broken finger.

“Sherlock,” he said, voice sharp to cut through the noise in his head, “ _Sherlock_ ,” but there was no response. There was the slam of a door and John looked up to realise that they were alone. _Well, that’s something_ , he thought with bitter humour, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s ribs and pulling him away from the worst of the broken mess as Sherlock continued to struggle against him. John got them both to a relatively clear corner of the room and tightened his grip, just holding on. “Come on _,_ ” he growled in Sherlock’s ear. “I can do this all day, so you might as well just _stop this_.” He slid his back down along the wall, pulling Sherlock down with him until they were both sitting.

Sherlock fell abruptly still, panting, and John followed his gaze to see that he was staring at the line of bloody half-footprints he’d left across the floor.

“You stepped on it,” John said, sounding more than a little breathless himself. “Back with me now? I’ll take a look.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and there was an abrupt, shuddering release of tension in his muscles that John felt down to his own bones. “John, I don’t—“ he started, and when he opened his eyes again they found John’s face immediately, searching for something there.

John waited for a long minute, but Sherlock didn’t seem to intend to finish his thought. “Yeah,” John said, relieving him. “Will you be all right if I let go?” On Sherlock’s nod John released his hands (his own covered in blood from the tiny cuts all over Sherlock’s hands and wrists, and he ground his teeth in anger at his own inability to prevent it) and shifted so Sherlock could lean against the wall. Upon inspection, there was one large piece of glass embedded in the heel of his left foot, solid enough to grasp with his fingers; on the whole, not nearly as bad as it could have been. “I’m going to pull this out now, got that?”

Sherlock nodded. He’d brought his own hands down to the floor on either side of his thighs and was scratching idly at the floorboards, his roughened nails catching on the grain of the wood and making a dry, rasping sound. John grasped Sherlock’s ankle firmly in one hand and the glass in the other, marked a count of three and pulled, counting himself inordinately lucky when it came out in one clean glide. He tore off a bit of his own shirt and wrapped it around Sherlock’s heel; it would need stitches. John added it to the ever-growing list of injuries that needed tending when they got out of that bloody place: his own injuries, physical, mental, and emotional, and Sherlock’s as well.

The physical injuries were far easier to contemplate. He tied off the bandage with a neat knot.

Sherlock didn’t seem to feel it, apparently absorbed in the sight of his blood seeping down his fingers toward the floor, the susurrus of his nails against the wood. “Stop that,” John said, grabbing at his hands to keep him from hurting himself further, and Sherlock flinched at the touch. His hands were shaking hard enough that John imagined the bones might rattle themselves to pieces; he clasped them together in his own as though he could hold Sherlock together by force of will. Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eyes. Then it was as if something clicked in John’s mind: the torn nails, Sherlock’s own voice in his memory— _he fits better_ —and the scratches he could see on the underside of the hatch and extending down the walls. There wouldn’t even have been space for Sherlock to lie down, much less—

He swallowed against the bile threatening to rise in his throat.

“Oh,” he said stupidly, and Sherlock huffed out a breath down his nose.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall with a thump. “I worked in here, on good days,” he said quietly. “I was working on—“ his brow creased into a frown. “Several things, in fact, over time. But I did have skills, you see. He found me useful.” He raised his head and opened his eyes again, pinning John with his gaze, and it was as clear as if the last three years hadn’t happened. “Useful except when I wasn’t, of course. Then… well.” He gave an awkward, one-shouldered shrug (and _oh_ , that was a gesture so unfamiliar an ache settled in John’s chest at the sight of it), flexing his toes against the floor, leaving little smears of blood in their wake. “I suppose you’ve worked it out for yourself, by now.”

John made a noncommittal noise—he _was_ starting to understand a bit more of it, he thought.

He hoped he was wrong.

“I suppose none of it matters,” Sherlock said, his eyes sliding away toward the window.

“Of course it—“

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock interrupted, stopping him, and John let it drop for the moment. The silence stretched on for long minutes until Sherlock broke it with a slow, shuddering inhale. “It was the only good thing,” he said, almost regretfully. “Here. The work. That and sometimes— well. But now I’ve—“ His voice caught on the last word and he swallowed. “Rather amusing,” he added with a twist of his lip, “considering.”

“Not very amusing, no,” John said quietly. Sherlock turned to face him, his eyes bright with tears he wasn’t yet ready to release, his expression shifting to something that could have been a smile, had John known him any less well.

John set his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “We should go,” he said. “Get you to hospital.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He hesitated for a moment, as though he might want to say something else; then, with a shake of his head as though he’d decided something: “Yes.”

* * *

By the time they’d made it to the front door, the police had been informed in no uncertain terms that, while both Sherlock and John would be more than willing to assist in their investigation, they could expect to do so from the relative comfort of the private hospital room Anthea had assured them was waiting.

“Absolutely not,” John said. “Sherlock is absolutely _not_ to enter this house again. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear,” Ess assented, and behind her Anthea flashed John a quick grin. He had Mycroft’s support too, then, and a feeling of relief unfurled itself in his chest.

Sherlock paused only briefly in the doorway, dipping his head to look at his pale feet outlined against the dark green of the doormat. John watched the muscles jump in his jaw, but then he raised his head, squared his shoulders, and stepped outside.


	4. Chapter 4

_John learns several things over the next few days. For the most part, they’re things he’d prefer not to know._

 _  
_

_  
_

_He learns, first, that Sherlock can still be stubborn, at least in some things. He simply refuses to acknowledge the nurse when she tries to pull him away so the doctor can stitch the wound in John’s chest. They end up sitting side by side on the table, the paper covering crinkling when John leans back so the doctor can swab at his skin and inject the local. Sherlock perches at the end of the table, face turned resolutely toward the wall, fingertips resting lightly on John’s calf._

 _He learns something else entirely from the way Sherlock’s muscles bunch and slide beneath the pale layer of skin across his shoulders at the touch of the needle to his own skin._

 _  
_

_  
_

_He learns that Swiss hospitals are clean and efficient, that the staff are friendly to a fault, but he knows too that they talk about him and Sherlock when they think John isn’t listening. “Sherlock” is a recognisable enough name, regardless of the language of the words which surround it._

 _Sherlock hasn’t said much about— well, anything really, but John is beginning to understand that he’s spent much of the last three years alone. It’s obvious from the way Sherlock’s eyes track John’s movements across the room, the way Sherlock’s hands clench at any noises not of his own making. John doesn’t press him. Sherlock will tell him what he wants to, when he’s ready._

 _Instead, John fills the space around them with noise, holds his hand in such a way that Sherlock has the chance to initiate contact. He mostly doesn’t, but those pale eyes continue to follow John’s every move, his gaze hanging heavily in the air between them like a promise._

 _  
_

_  
_

_John learns, from Mycroft, something about helplessness. About_ real _helplessness which, he comes to understand, is this: having power in every sphere but the one in which you want it most._ __

_Mycroft appears, pausing in the doorway of their shared room (a room for which he is doubtless responsible, yet hesitant to enter; hesitant for the first time that John has seen him, and a time at which his action is most necessary). He looks, first, at his brother, at the dark spill of his curls against the white linens of the bed; then, imploringly, at John himself_.

 _“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, eyes still on John, and John has seen the look in them before, on the faces of patients’ parents and spouses and siblings. The anxiety of time lost, future and past, when all he can give them is the present._

 _He stands to go._

 _  
_

* * *

 

Sherlock slept fitfully that first night, obviously restless and uncomfortable, but the fact was that he _slept_ , held under by the steady weight of the sedatives he’d been given (looking to John for reassurance as he tipped the pills into his open mouth, swallowed them dry). John lay wakefully in his own bed a few feet away, curled on his side, following the rise-fall of Sherlock’s chest under the blanket. Keeping watch.

The second night Sherlock slipped into sleep easily, silently, and John followed soon after. He woke a few minutes after 3 a.m., body tense and sore, heart pounding, _furious_. He lay in the dark and breathed into the air above him, waiting, finally slipping back down into sleep just as light began to filter in around the drawn curtains of the window. If he dreamed, he didn’t remember it.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had fallen into one of his fitful naps when Anthea came by, so John swung his legs out of the bed and padded out into the hallway to stand, barefoot and clad in borrowed hospital scrubs, amid the bustle of the staff going about their business.

“Mr Holmes has gone back to London,” Anthea said, almost apologetically. John nodded. They’d needed to see each other, and now they needed time to process. The Holmes brothers: always caught up in their own minds. “But he wanted me to show you some things that the investigation has turned up. If you’re ready.”

John wasn’t. “Sure,” he said.

She opened a folder containing what John knew immediately to be crime scene photographs. Of the house where Sherlock had been found, of course. _Moriarty’s house_ , he thought, surprised at his own discomfort with the concept.

“It’s not just his abduction that’s being investigated, of course.” Anthea smiled. Of course. “But there’s some information here you may find of particular interest. Mr Holmes thought it best to share it with you.”

John studied the scenes before him, forcing himself to look. Some of the scenes were familiar to him from his time there, others less so. The known, made none the less uncomfortable for familiarity: the chemistry lab (or what was left of it). The hatch in the floor, first with Moriarty’s body, then without; the overlaid scratches on the inside surfaces, a neat layer of tally marks and illegible lettering overlaid with wild gouges.

John suppressed a shudder.

Then the unseen but expected: a box containing various knives, restraints, implements that looked medical but that John was sure were not. A wardrobe with neat suits and expensive fabric—in Sherlock’s size, Anthea informed him. A kit with syringes, sedatives, other injectables. Close-up details of the basement itself, of odd scratches in its walls.

“There’s one more thing,” Anthea said, and slide two more photographs from the envelope. The first showed a detail of the basement John had noticed during his time there: an odd patch of flooring which didn’t quite match up with the wall. The second—

“Christ,” John said.

Anthea’s lip twisted into something like amusement. “Quite. We haven’t yet made a positive identification, but evidence suggests these might be the remains of one Sebastian Moran. You knew him, I believe.”

John nodded, unable to take his eye off the image in front of him: the photographic representation of blonde hair poking up through the dirt. He swallowed, his throat and tongue suddenly unbearably dry.

“A year, give or take,” Anthea continued, anticipating John’s question. “And please understand, we can delay it a bit, but—“ She broke off, delicately, a small sympathetic smile playing across her mouth. “A full investigation will of course be unavoidable. Mr Holmes’ contacts can ease the process, but even they can’t circumvent it entirely.”

John chewed his bottom lip, considering. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said at length, “but I can’t promise anything.”

“We wouldn’t ask you to, John.”

 _No_ , he thought, _you wouldn’t_. He’d ask it of himself, though; of both of them.

Sherlock wasn’t in his bed when John went back into their room. He was, instead, standing beside the sink with back to the wall, one arm extended so that his fingertips rested against the top of the cold water tap. His eyes were closed, lines of concentration creasing his forehead.

John took a deep breath.

“Sherlock,” he said, and the pale eyes snapped open immediately. There was a moment of fuzzy non-recognition there, that blank stare signalling that Sherlock had gone… wherever it was he went in those moments.

John waited.

Sherlock’s hand tightened convulsively around the faucet, twisted it, turning his head to stare at the water as it began to pour out of the tap.

“You left,” he said in a voice completely devoid of emotion.

 _You left, too_ , John thought, _you keep leaving, every time you disappear inside your own mind_ , but when he spoke he kept his voice similarly neutral. “I was just in the hall. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, not moving his eyes from the faucet.

He’d been asking John that same question several times a day, despite the fact that he could see the glowing red numbers on the bedside alarm just as well as John could. John sighed and answered him, resignedly; Sherlock gave a small nod, twisted the tap off almost violently, and took two steps until he was just inches from John.

“You were gone,” he said again, close enough that he had to look almost directly downward, and John had to fight the urge to step back.

“You were asleep,” he said again, trying to be reasonable. He wanted to be reasonable, he _did_ , but he was injured too, physically and emotionally exhausted. “I didn’t go far, and I’m back now.”

“The door was closed,” Sherlock said, and it took John a moment to realise that the accusatory nature of the statement wasn’t actually in Sherlock’s voice but in his own head. Sherlock was simply stating a fact, and yes, the door _had_ been closed. Which meant—

“Oh,” John breathed. He looked around their hospital room, seeing it as though for the first time: clean, white and grey, sparsely furnished. A single window, a sink, a closed door. Considered the physicality of the space itself, quiet and empty and enclosed. “Oh,” he said again, feeling shattered.

Layers of complications, infinite. Not just the implications of a quiet room with a closed door, but the force of memory from before; Sherlock had been in a hospital at the beginning, after all, and John understood something he should have seen immediately.

They couldn’t stay there.

“What happened to Moran?” John asked abruptly, the question spilling out before he understood why he was asking it.

Sherlock drew in a breath and stepped back at the name. He held John’s gaze for a long moment, the muscles tightening around the corners of his eyes, then dropped his chin to look at his own bare feet on the tiled floor. John watched Sherlock’s shoulders rise and fall with his breath. When he looked up again, he seemed genuinely puzzled.

“I can’t,” Sherlock said finally, his voice catching in his throat, and John recognised it for the answer it was.

 

* * *

 

The third night, John fell asleep easily and woke shouting. He’d dreamt of Baker Street, empty and quiet; woke to a crash and the sharp scent of blood.

In the darkened room, Sherlock could have been a ghost—flesh pale to the point of luminescence in the darkness—except that he was crouched in front of the sink (John considered, nonsensically, that ghosts generally didn’t _crouch_ ) and breathing. Of course. But there: Sherlock was crouching, the twist of his spine extended up through one long arm wrapped up and over his other shoulder. John blinked, fighting his way up to full consciousness through the haze of sleep and pain medication, listening to the ragged gasping sounds of Sherlock’s breath, and—

John didn’t feel his feet hit the floor, had crossed the room and was pulling the shard of broken mirror from Sherlock’s grasp before he’d processed his own actions. Sherlock snarled at him, lashing out, but it was a sloppy, haphazard motion and John grabbed his arm easily. There was blood on Sherlock’s hand; John could see more running down his back where Sherlock had pushed the hospital gown over the winged outline of his shoulder blade.

“What the hell,” John began, and the rigid tension of Sherlock’s muscles shifted; he was no longer struggling but tightening, drawing inward.

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was low and rough: “I want them gone.”

 _The burns_ , John realised with a pang, noting the gashes where he’d scratched blindly at his own skin.

“Yes,” he said quietly, and Sherlock stopped pulling away, let himself be drawn in, let his blood seep into the sleeves of John’s scrubs as he held on. “I do, too. But not this way.” All John could offer him was the certainty of time moving forward, blunting the edges.

Sherlock’s eyes, when he tipped his chin down to meet John’s gaze, were just dark pools of shadow. “You said,“ he began, broke off. John watched as a long swallow moved along the pale column of his throat. “If it’s still there, I mean, if it’s still—“

Sherlock fell into silence. John waited, one hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, just the barest of pressure, willing him to formulate the thought on his own.

“Home, John,” Sherlock said, and contained in the words was a question to which John didn’t have an answer.

Well, bollocks to that. He’d promised, and he was the sort of man who kept his promises, even the most ill-advised ones. He’d done madder things, after all; Afghanistan, for one— _that wasn’t just me_ —and looking up at the shadowed lines of Sherlock’s face he knew, for the first time in three years, that it was once again true.

 

* * *

 

In the end, the solution was obvious enough: John called Mycroft. It took three days—three days’ purgatory of the sort John hoped never to repeat, Sherlock seeming to retreat further into himself by the hour—but he called in another favour and managed to both secure passports for them and arrange a private flight back to London.They were accompanied by Anthea, who ushered them along circumspectly, acting as intermediary between John and the airport personnel (Sherlock out of the equation entirely, of course; he’d gone silent and non-responsive on their last evening in hospital, no longer letting even John come near him) and otherwise kept her distance. Allowing them their privacy, John noted gratefully.

John wondered if he’d ever be able to erase the memory of the flight itself, the enclosed space and constant noise sending Sherlock into an hours-long panic attack, his heart going so hard he’d fogged up the window next to his seat. John’s own nerves jangled in sympathy, so much so that by the time the wheels finally touched down in London he was toeing at the hard edge of panic himself. When Anthea showed them to the waiting car Sherlock folded himself neatly into the seat, glassy-eyed, holding his limbs carefully; John found it was all he could do to fall in beside him. He slumped against the door and tried not to think about the mechanics of pulling air into his lungs until the pressure equalised and his heart slowed down to something like its normal rate.

John would have thought Sherlock would be thrilled to see London again but when he chanced a glance in his direction Sherlock’s eyes were closed, the skin at their corners creasing into deep furrows. Sherlock shifted his feet uneasily, dragging the soles of his new shoes against the carpet (his own shoes having been found, eventually, in Moriarty’s house, but Fedpol had insisted they were evidence and refused to release them).

The car glided to a stop at the kerb in front of the old flat. John hadn’t been entirely surprised to learn that it hadn’t been let again since he moved out—Mycroft had apparently continued to pay Mrs Hudson some agreed-upon sum, and she hadn’t advertised for new tenants—though it still felt unnaturally simple, almost mockingly so, an attempt to slip back into a life that might no longer exist.

John opened the door and levered himself to standing on legs stiff and sore with long-held tension. Sherlock still hadn’t opened his eyes. “Come on,” John urged, breaking a long silence, and Sherlock slid silently across the seat, finally opening his eyes to look down at the pavement. John fought the urge to grab his elbow and lead him inside; clenched his hands into fists instead.

Anthea unlocked the front door. “If you need anything, John,” she said with a small smile, handing him the key and disappearing back into the interior of the car.

John stood on the stoop, looking up the stairs to the door which had housed their old life. “Sherlock,” he said, and Sherlock’s shoulders jerked, a sharp movement of the bones beneath his shirt. He raised his head slowly, like it hurt, and followed John inside.

The flat was just as John had left it, the living room and kitchen bare except for the furnishings, Sherlock’s things piled in boxes in his old room. Sherlock stood by the window, running his finger along the fabric on the back of the sofa. The whole place smelled musty, closed-up, though the windows were open to the warm summer air.

“Wait here,” John said, suddenly at a loss, “I’ll just go find something to put on your bed.” He made his way up the stairs to the linen closet, dragging legs that each seemed to weigh a tonne. He’d have to phone the surgery in Cornwall, he supposed, give them notice, make a plan to get his—

He passed the doorway of his own room, catching sight of the boxes piled there, and froze.

His phone chimed in his pocket.

`I’ve taken the liberty of having your things moved. I trust you won’t mind. MH`

A sudden rush of anger up his spine; John swore and smacked his hand against the doorframe. It was irrational, he knew—of course he would be moving back, he’d just been thinking it himself—but still, that _bastard_ , he had a life of his own; how _dare_ Mycroft just assume he’d be willing to give it up just to babysit Sherlock through his— whatever _this_ was. Once again a pawn in everyone else’s game, so inextricably wrapped up in Sherlock’s chaos that no one even imagined he could be anything else.

His chest throbbed dully in time with his racing heart. He pressed his uninjured hand against the line of stitches there, recalling the moment in which he’d chosen not to fight it.

He’d never fought it, not really.

Right, then.

One way or another he made his way to the bed, balancing shakily on legs that threatened to buckle beneath him at every step.

“I’m not equipped for this,” he said to himself, sinking down onto the mattress. (But: of course he was; who better? Friend, colleague, doctor; he knew what it was to filter the world through a mind trapped in its own past.) He could hear distant noises downstairs, the opening and closing of a door on the ground floor; Mrs Hudson, no doubt told not to bother them, no longer able to contain her curiosity. He’d have to intercept her, he supposed, wondering how much she knew already.

He took a deep breath and pressed himself heavily to standing, kept himself upright by leaning against the wall, his head swimming with exhaustion. It wasn’t until he was nearly at the bottom of the stairs that he realised he’d forgotten the sheets.

Sherlock was no longer standing by the sofa but sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, palms pressed flat against the surface of the table. Mrs Hudson had moved more quickly than John could; when he entered the kitchen she was already there, busying herself in front of the open refrigerator, chattering brightly.

“— have missed you around here, it’s just been so dreadfully quiet you couldn’t imagine, though I can’t say I’ve missed having to replace the— oh, John!” she exclaimed, seeing him. “I thought you boys might be tired, so I did a bit of shopping to tide you over. I’m just putting it away now; hope you don’t mind.” She shut the door and turned to face him, her face slipping momentarily into something like sympathy. She’d always been a quick one. “Sit down, dear, you look ready to fall over. I’ll just do up the beds and get out of your hair.”

John folded himself into the seat beside Sherlock, chanced a look at his face. Sherlock’s eyes were on Mrs Hudson, the corner of his mouth curled in a soft twist at odds with the tension in his back and shoulders. In the overhead light, John was struck again by the depth of the circles under his eyes, the stark line of his jaw. Home again, and so much further yet to go.

“That’s all right, Mrs Hudson, I can—“ John said, and she made a shushing noise. She was right, of course; he really couldn’t. “Thank you,” he finished, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice. “That would be lovely.”

She moved around the table, grasped John by the shoulder and gave him a small, sad smile, angling her head so Sherlock couldn’t see. “Of course, dear.” She paused only briefly behind Sherlock’s chair, then bent quickly and pressed a kiss against the top of his head; John tensed, but Sherlock didn’t move away. “Just while you get settled again, mind,” she said to John, and disappeared up the stairs. He could hear her quick, efficient footsteps overhead, the snap of sheets as she fanned them out.

Dreadfully quiet, indeed. John thought he understood some of what it had cost her to see them go; she’d be collateral damage if he couldn’t bring them home again.

Sherlock sat in silence, looking down at his hands on the table. John watched the rise-fall of his shoulders and found himself wondering in which box Mycroft had packed his gun.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock’s awareness was fading in and out like a radio signal.

He was sitting at the table in the kitchen, running his eyes over the grain of the table—

— a plate of cheese on toast sliding into his field of vision, between his downturned hands. John’s voice: “You need to eat, you know.” Sherlock, vaguely aware of his own hunger and unable to access the words to explain that the relevant bits of anatomy weren’t actually _his_ —

— standing amid a pile of boxes in his old bedroom with no memory of having moved, the sky outside the window gone dark and yellow with streetlights—

— John crouching over him (how did he get on the floor?) in a towel, hair dripping (had John showered? When, why?), face dark with concern—

— his own face in the mirror. Only not his face but a mockery of it, a funhouse-mirror distortion, his features absurdly outsized. An unrecognisable reflection of himself, trapped in this unrecognisable mockery of his old flat (too empty, too quiet) with this unrecognisable mockery of John.

Oh, but that wasn’t quite fair; John was _very_ well done. Quite recognisable indeed, and all the more cruel for it. Still. Sherlock was clever, he saw right through this trick (just a touch too sad to be his John, the hair a shade too grey around the temples). His false reflection grimaced and Sherlock managed not to flinch at how ugly it was. (Not him, not him.) He curled his fingers tight around the ceramic basin of the sink. Fresh bandages there on his right hand; why? No idea. Didn’t matter.

If he reached back in his memory, poked _just so_ at his own mind, he could summon up a ghost of awareness of where _the other one_ (not John, couldn’t be; never had been before) would be: on the sofa. _Yes_. He could see it in his mind’s eye, now that he’d summoned the image: those blue eyes creased with worry, a mumbled half-apology about waiting up. The subterfuge must be exhausting, Sherlock supposed, because if he closed his eyes and focused all his attention on his ears he could just hear the faint rasping sound of sleep breathing coming from the living room.

(Just like John’s. Oh, this one was so very _good_ , it was almost a shame, but Jim would be so proud of him for seeing through it.)

Sherlock didn’t know who it was this time. Didn’t matter; a pawn like the others, all of them pawns in Jim’s game. Always playing games, Jim, and half the fun was working out the rules. Sherlock was getting quite good at it; the next move already unfolding before him, familiar and thrilling.

Sherlock turned from the sink and moved out into the hall, bare feet silent against the floor. He considered, briefly, the kitchen—it had always been knives before, Jim insisted—but no, not this time; this time, the likeness was too good. Sherlock needed to see the image destroyed, the intimacy of the act itself without the separation of any tools. Had to shatter the illusion, bring it back to the way things truly were. Yes. Clear, so clear.

(Maybe then— but no. Better not to cling to false hope.)

He stood behind the sofa, looking down at the tipped-back head of _the other one_ : eyes closed, mouth slack in sleep.

(All of it false. The only absolute.)

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock placed the tips of his fingers against the the sofa back on either side of the sleeping head. But the work of a moment to bring his hands together around the exposed throat (perfectly exposed, like Jim had arranged that for him; a _gift_ , beautiful) and then it was happening without conscious thought, his hands floating upward and drifting toward each other.

There was an immediate tensing of muscles under his fingertips as the blue eyes sprang open (close, _so close_ to the way Sherlock remembered them). Sherlock cradled the delicate architecture of the windpipe between his palms, focused all his attention on crushing it closed, ignored the hands clawing at his arms. There was thrashing and tugging beneath him but he felt it distantly, transfixed by the way the skin above his hands was reddening, darkening toward purple.

 _Not long now,_ then the lips would turn blue and the tongue would turn black and it would be over, _not long_ , this horrible cruel likeness would be gone and Sherlock would be able to see everything properly again, he’d be able to—

“It’s okay, _leannán_ ,” he murmured soothingly.

There was a minute stillness in the body under his hands, and he scarcely had time to register the tight coil of tension building there before the shock of impact (a bright burst of pain to forearm and ribs) drove him backward. He hit the wall with an impact that left him stunned; rasping breath against the side of his face, a tight band of pressure around his ribs and he was being pulled down, fighting against it, vision narrowing against the panic growing in his chest.

The voice in his ear was pained and ragged with coughing: “Take it easy, take it easy,” over and over again like a mantra.

When his vision cleared again he was on his back, hands pinned on either side of his head, John kneeling on his chest. _John_ , those blue eyes (already reddening) staring at him with such intent that the gaze itself was like a jolt straight through his own eyes and into his brain (live wire to the hypothalamus, direct current, hooking right in) and something in him shook open, a layer peeling away, and—

Oh. _Oh_.

There was an attenuated moment while they both dragged air into their chests: one breath, two.

John must have read something in Sherlock’s face because he dragged himself up, easing his weight off Sherlock’s shoulders and folding gracelessly to his knees on the floor beside him. One steady hand still pressed against Sherlock’s, fingers hooking down to insinuate themselves in the space between his own. John’s throat was flushed and red with broken capillaries; visible outlines of Sherlock’s fingers there (intimate rough catch of stubble against his skin; too close; all of it crowded inside his head, latent and dangerous). John dragged air into starved lungs, a close, guarded expression creasing the corners of his eyes, the lines around his mouth drawn tight. _John._ Sherlock reached out his free hand to run his fingertips along the wallpaper, concentrated on the thick-smooth texture of it.

(Slippery and tenuous, none of it safe or sure, moment to moment. _Focus or you'll slip again. Focus_.)

Sherlock could feel the dangerous crackle of uncertainty inside his own brain like a fuse; his legs under him, thighs coiled tight, waiting to go off.

John would have told him to run. Had done, once.

Ought to return the favour while he still understood what it meant, before he lost himself again. He opened his mouth to speak, intending a warning or an apology. What came out was a long exhaled sound he scarcely recognised as his own voice: “I don’t know,” the words themselves rough-edged with their own inadequacy. He’d tried (failed) to say it so many times already.

John held himself warily still for a long moment, blue eyes steady on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock waited for the dawning understanding (John was hardly a stupid man), the inevitable withdrawal. What he got was the first but not the second, John falling not away but inward, toward him. John’s arms were strong and sure, drawing Sherlock up and toward him until his head was pressed against John’s chest, John’s steadying heartbeat close under his ear.

“Yeah,” John said, his own voice a pained, ragged sound; dark, low reverberations of the words in his chest that Sherlock could feel in his bones. “Me neither.”

John had one arm wrapped around his shoulders and Sherlock clung to it, pressing his fingers into the corded muscle of John’s forearm. John’s other hand was at the nape of his neck, in his hair, kneading at the muscle there, small soothing sensations of skin against skin. All steady and careful and safe and shatteringly, undeniably real, and Sherlock felt a bubble of panic rise in his throat at the thought that he might— might _slip_ again, let the slim thread of it slide through the cracks in his mind or, worse, destroy it forever.

John’s heartbeat was still shuddering slightly under his ear. Sherlock was all too familiar with that knife’s-edge balance before time tipped over into the impossible, expanded and stretched until the space between the heartbeats dissolved into meaningless. It had been so close, too close.

“Don’t let me—“

Sherlock had meant that as a warning, too ( _lose myself; fall; hurt you_ ), but John’s arms tightened around him, cutting off his words.

There was a long, careful moment during which neither of them moved.

Sherlock’s next inhale quivered against his ribs, elongated into a full-body shudder that forced its way through him, shaking loose tears and half-formed words and something less identifiable: a dark, close-held ache that unfurled itself inside him.

John, for his part, didn’t pull away and didn’t try to stop it, just pressed whispered words against the top of Sherlock’s hair and held himself still while Sherlock let awareness filter through the closed spaces within his own body; allowed it, then, to dissipate, the nameless, unnatural barriers crumbling under their own weight.

It wasn’t until he felt John pulling him to his feet that Sherlock realised he’d gone still. The lassitude of exhaustion dragged at his limbs but he allowed himself to be led back to his bedroom, the boxes piled there no longer sinister evidence of incomplete research but the natural consequence of a too-long absence, reassuring in all the ways they didn’t fit with his memory.

He sat on the bed while John rifled through boxes, found what he was looking for on the second try. Allowed himself to be undressed, lifting his limbs obediently. His mind felt washed clean, his thoughts clearer than he could remember them being in a long time.

“I could hurt you,” he said quietly when John turned his back to grab Sherlock’s pyjamas, “quite badly.” His voice, when he spoke, was nearly as hoarse as John’s.

When John turned to face him again, one corner of his mouth was curled up in a smile that was at odds with the hard set to his eyes. “You won’t.”

“I have already.”

That part was true in more ways than one, and John’s hand twitched, moving reflexively toward his throat. He stopped it before it got there, grasped the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms firmly and held them out for Sherlock to step into. “You won’t,” he said again.

(In memory: John, wrapped in Semtex, telling him to run. He hadn’t either, given the chance.)

“I’m not always—“ _Myself_ , Sherlock wanted to say, but there was something about the phrase that sat uneasily in his mind so he left it unfinished. Settled on the important part, the outcome: “I need you whole.”

John considered, nodded, helped him thread his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. “I know.” (Sherlock’s own feeling of certainty as he aimed for the vest.) “I’ll do what I need to.”

Layers of meaning to John’s words, and Sherlock trusted his choice either way. (John, nodding: _do it_. Both of them or neither.) “Good.”

The smile John gave him was loose and grey-tinged with exhaustion. “We could both do with some rest,” he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Sherlock’s bed.. “Will you— I mean, shall I—“ _Go_ , he meant. _Leave you alone_.

(Reluctance on his face; not trusting Sherlock alone, not wanting to be alone himself? Likely both, the thought of it settling as a dark ache in the space between his lungs.)

Sherlock considered the doorway, the window pushed open as wide as it would go. There was a wrenching surge in the pit of his stomach, where the small, fluttering bubble of panic had taken root. John must have seen it in his face—Sherlock past hiding it; John past pretending he had—because he breathed out a relieved smile and slid into bed beside him.

* * *

Sherlock woke once to a darkness as heavily oppressive against his eyes as always, the thoughts once again slick and shimmering round the edges of his sleep-fogged mind. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the echo of it shuddering up his throat. A long moment before trying to move (barely-restrained panic lest he discover he couldn’t)—

— but no, just the unfamiliar sensation of starched sheets under his fingertips, reaching out until he encountered something warm and solid, undeniably human: John’s chest, rising and falling gently with his breath. _John_.

John stirred at Sherlock’s touch, shifting closer, reaching out his own hand to rest lightly against Sherlock’s hip, a pleasant, anchoring weight in the darkness. Holding him steady; keeping him there.


	6. Chapter 6

When Sherlock woke again there was light streaming in through the open window, the sounds of a London afternoon coming in from the street, and he was alone.

Still Baker Street, then.

 _Obvious_. He felt a surge of annoyance at having doubted it and shifted, face and limbs heavy and stiff against the sheets. The door to the room stood open and he could hear John’s voice, pitched low: “— involved whether you want it or not.”

An answering voice, equally low and familiar: “I know, but it’s either me or Fedpol, and that brother of his was quite insistent.”

Sherlock pushed himself stiffly upright, levered his feet over the edge of the bed. His old dressing-gown was resting against the top of a nearby box and it was both dizzying and surreal to watch his own hand reach out to grab it. He wrapped it around his shoulders as he made his way out into the hall. Turned to see John and Lestrade sitting in the living room, their faces creased into matching, thoughtful frowns.

Lestrade stood immediately, extending his arm as though about to shake Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock had to stop himself from taking an involuntary step backward, the room wavering slightly around the edges. His eyes flicked to John, who was watching him carefully in turn. There were livid bruises standing out against the skin of his throat.

By the time Sherlock turned his gaze back to Lestrade, Lestrade had mostly regained control over his features. “Sherlock.” There was a warm undercurrent of affection to the word and Sherlock could pretend he hadn’t seen the narrowing of his eyes. It was undeniably good to see him, hear his voice again. Near enough to Sherlock’s memory that he could almost convince himself nothing had changed.

— but it wouldn’t just be him. Sherlock would be a shock to everyone and he abruptly, violently, didn’t want to deal with any of this; couldn’t face the overwhelming press of other people’s relief stretching out before him, the thought of it sending a spike of frustration through his chest.

He let his eyes slide closed, little more than a blink. _Focus_.

“Yes, well done,” he snapped, summoning a sarcastic tone from somewhere in the dim, distant recesses of his mind. He set a hand against the wall to steady himself in what he hoped was a casual gesture, waved the other in the direction of the files in Lestrade’s hand. “You’ve brought me something.”

Lestrade looked taken aback, a tense moment of silence stretching between them until John’s face crumpled into laughter. Lestrade joined him with a tentative chuckle.

“I did warn you,” John said to Lestrade. Then, to Sherlock: “Absolutely not. Not yet. You need to _rest_.”

“ _You_ need to rest,” he shot back, relying on a half-remembered impulse. “I need to work. In any case, if Mycroft’s involved and you haven’t sent him away yet, I know what it is already.” Something useful to do. Just the thought of it filled him with an almost physical ache. _Please_. He could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat. “So don’t try to keep this from me; you know you can’t.”

He held John’s gaze for a long moment during which neither of them seemed to breathe. Staring each other down, John’s expression unreadable, Sherlock past knowing how much was visible on his own face.

John must have read something there, because at last he relented. “Fine,” he said, resigned, still addressing Sherlock but turning his glare on Lestrade. “ _Fine_. It’s against my better judgment, and only on the _strict understanding_ that the second I think you need to be out, you’re out.” He pressed himself to standing and there was just the briefest of hesitations before he turned toward the kitchen. “Sit down; I’ll make you some breakfast.”

Sherlock folded into the armchair, stretched out a hand for the files. “Don’t be coy, then.”

“It might not be quite what you think, and feel free to tell me to bugger right off,” Lestrade said cautiously, eyes moving over Sherlock’s face. “But your brother thought it might— thought you might want to have a look at this.”

* * *

When John returned from the kitchen with toast and eggs, Sherlock was perched in the chair, file open on his lap. John had some idea what he was seeing there. It wasn’t his own case, or not exactly. He flipped the pages, eyes flicking rapidly over the text, and it wasn’t until he saw the photograph clipped to the back of the fourth page that Sherlock understood how this involved him at all. But there, in the photograph: the synthetic gems he’d created in Moriarty’s lab, that were now being traded for—

Well, that’s what the Yard needed his help sorting out.

Sherlock snapped the file shut when John set the plate in front of him. “Yes. You’d have analysed their crystallographic patterns, of course, and doubtless worked out already their thermogenic properties were prioritised over aesthetics. Though looking here,” he shook the file slightly, “it’s clear the aim is to confuse you. You’re meant to think it’s routine smuggling, gems for cash.”

Lestrade was leaning forward with his elbows balanced on his knees, hands hanging loosely in the air in front of him. John recognised his posture all too well: deliberately casual, a blanket of relaxation to disguise careful awareness. Poised for action. His gaze didn’t move from Sherlock’s face. “We’ve traced a few of them to some jewelers,” he said, voice carefully neutral.

“Decoys, obviously.” Sherlock was staring at the photographs as though frozen. It was amazing, John thought, how much he sounded like himself, though he could see what it was costing Sherlock in effort from the rigid lines of strain in his neck and back. He hitched a hip onto the armrest of the chair.

“To distract us from what? What’s the game here?”

John watched a fine tremor move through Sherlock’s shoulders beneath the thin material of the dressing gown, had to clench his hand against his thigh to stop himself from reaching out. “Weapons. Communications.” Sherlock shrugged. “Not enough data beyond—“ The muscles of Sherlock’s temple jumped as he clenched his jaw. “Your photographer didn’t know what he was looking for. I’d need to see them in person, examine them properly.”

Lestrade’s gaze shifted to John’s face. “I’ll get some out of evidence, bring them by,” he said vaguely. He glanced down at his phone, which had neither beeped nor buzzed. “I’m needed back soon. You can keep the file. Ah, John… a word?”

John nodded and pushed himself to standing. “I’ll walk you downstairs,” he said. “Finish your breakfast, Sherlock. I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock was still staring at the pages in front of him but raised his hand in a vague wave. “Yes, yes, fine.”

Lestrade stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Look, Sherlock.” There was a slight hesitation to his voice. “It’s— we’ve missed you. It’s good to have you back.” There was a long moment of uncomfortable silence during which Sherlock neither looked up nor acknowledged the words. Lestrade sucked his lip against his teeth and turned to go.

Down on the street, Lestrade turned to face John again. “Bit of a shock,” he said with the hint of a smile. “That’s the cleanest I’ve ever seen your flat.” It was a feeble attempt at a joke and hung awkwardly in the air, but John was almost pathetically grateful for the effort.

When Lestrade spoke again, his tone was more serious. “Christ, it’s just so— you’re sure you don’t need someone?” He’d offered to stay himself when he first saw the bruises on John’s neck; at John’s refusal, he’d offered to send a car to sit on the street. John had refused that, too.

John twisted his lip into what he hoped would be a smile, though he could see that it had failed by the expression on Lestrade’s face. “He needs some time,” he said apologetically.

“He needs a good sight more than that, I’d say.”

John managed a small laugh at that. “Fair enough.”

Lestrade reached out, set his hand on John’s shoulder. “Look, if you need anything. Need to get out, or— or anything. You call me. You cracking up won’t do him a bit of good.”

John didn’t allow himself to watch Lestrade drive away, just turned and closed the door to the street, leaning his forehead heavily against it for a moment before beginning to climb the steps back up to 221b. If he let himself hesitate, he might not have made it at all.

* * *

Sometimes John would catch Sherlock standing in a doorway, waiting as though he needed someone to open it for him. (He’d shake his head and mutter to himself when he noticed John watching him, reach out a pale hand to twist the doorknob and step through of his own accord.)

Neither of them slept alone anymore.

When John dreamed it was of sand and quiet spaces; when Sherlock’s nightmares woke him, he woke Sherlock in turn and talked them together through the dark, pouring out any words he had. He’d fill the room around them with the sound of his voice until the even rise-fall of Sherlock’s chest told him Sherlock had slipped back down into sleep.

Sometimes John would keep talking, even then, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the light to filter in through the always-open window.

* * *

John was halfway through an email to Harry when he heard a crash from the kitchen.

Sherlock was standing at the sink, staring at his own fingers where they were wrapped around the broken handle of a mug. Beneath the mess of his curls, his skin was deathly pale. There was a small pile of broken ceramic on the floor by Sherlock’s feet.

“I’ll clean it up,” John said.

Sherlock was still standing at the sink when John returned with Mrs Hudson’s broom and dustpan, eyes still on the mess at his feet. John was just stepping into the kitchen when Sherlock registered his presence; there was a wrenching of the bones in his shoulder as he turned, gaze locked on John’s face, his own features drawn tight with strain. There was no recognition in the pale eyes.

John froze for the space of one long inhale and set the broom aside, took another step into the room.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s breath caught visibly in his chest, and something in his bearing seemed to deflate. He dropped what was left of the mug and leaned stiffly against the counter, his spine hanging heavy between the abrupt juts of his shoulder blades.

“It’s just a mug,” John said mildly, careful to keep the caution out of his voice.

“I know that. I do know that. It’s not you, it’s—” He dropped his head forward. “I’m sorry, John.”

“It’s just a mug,” John said again.

Sherlock tipped his head sideways to look at John from the corner of his eyes. After a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched up, his cheek crumpling into an uneven smile. “Just a mug,” he echoed, breathing out something almost like a laugh.

* * *

It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to reach for John in the darkness, seek out the grounding reassurance of his sleeping body. Most nights, when it happened, John would squeeze his hand or touch his shoulder, whisper the time he could read in the glowing face of the bedside clock, and Sherlock would breathe out a satisfied little sigh and settle back into himself.

“One fifty-eight,” John murmured into the pillow, letting his eyes fall closed again. When he reached out a sleep-heavy arm for Sherlock’s shoulder what he found instead was the warmth of his curls. Sherlock turned his head upward to mouth a kiss against John’s palm, his lips warm and slightly rough against John’s skin, and Sherlock’s hand was splaying across his ribcage, moving—

John was, abruptly, entirely awake. “ _Sherlock_ ,” he said, voice sounding sharp in the darkness. “What are you— Wake _up_.”

“I’m awake.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled out of his chest, low and lazy-sounding. He started scratching his nails lightly along the side of John’s chest. John caught his wrist, feeling Sherlock’s arm jerk in surprise, and scooted up until he was seated against the headboard.

“What,” he said evenly, “are you doing?”

Sherlock didn’t pull his arm out of John’s grip, though there was a waver of hesitancy in his voice when he spoke. “I just, you’ve been so—“ A pause. “I wanted to—“

John waited, realisation sinking through him like a stone. “You wanted to thank me,” he said finally, feeling sick.

“Yes. No.” Sherlock did pull his arm away then, and John let him. After a moment, John felt the weight of Sherlock’s hand settle on his drawn-up knee. Sherlock’s voice, when he spoke again, was just a whisper, hollow and achingly naked in the darkness. “It’s still there, in my head. I can— he’s so _loud_.”

John recognised that tone. He knew it from a place thousands of miles away, in the throats of men to whom he could offer nothing but a hand to hold while while their lives disappeared into the dry, greedy sand under their backs.

“Okay,” he said simply, moving back to lie down against the mattress. He slid one hand up into the soft curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, pressed a kiss against his forehead, against the thin barrier of skin and bone that housed that twisted, miraculous brain. “Okay.”

John turned so his back was to Sherlock’s chest, allowed Sherlock to be the one to curl protectively around him. He loved every inch of that body, long and warm and impossibly alive beside him, and they had all the time in the world. He twined his fingers in Sherlock’s, pulled their joined fists forward to cradle them against his chest, where Sherlock could feel the beat of his heart. “Talk to me.”

For all the talking John had done over the last few days, Sherlock had offered few words of his own, his voice moving tentatively through the air between them. This time it was John who listened while Sherlock spilled words into the night air, breath warm and heavy against the back of John’s neck, carrying them through to dawn.

* * *

Mycroft showed up at the flat in the early afternoon, and Sherlock actually nearly smiled at the sight of him in the doorway. When Mycroft produced a bag containing Sherlock’s violin case and a new mobile, the smile disappeared and Sherlock’s features creased into something altogether more complicated and open.

John had seen that same expression on Harry’s face, felt it on his own. He left them to it.

He intended just to walk, to collect himself; dialled Lestrade’s number on an impulse.

They ended up meeting at a pub a few streets over. John got there first to find it mostly empty, dimly lit and refreshing quiet in contrast to the street outside. John got a drink and settled in to wait for Lestrade with something like relief. He’d only just begun to feel anxiety at the thought of what they’d talk about when Lestrade arrived.

He didn’t sit down yet, just peeled off his jacket while he took stock of the expression on John’s face, the fading yellow-green ghosts of bruises on his neck. “Better, worse, or the same?” he said by way of greeting, not meaning the bruises.

“The same.” Then, wanting to offer something, wanting it to be true: “A bit better, maybe.”

“The best you can hope for, I expect,” Lestrade said with a nod and an understanding upward quirk of his lip.

He left John alone again while he fetched a pint of his own from the bar; when he came back, his attitude was entirely different. He slid into the seat opposite with a relaxed huff of air, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t suppose you saw that brilliant save by the Arsenal keeper last night?”

They passed the rest of the afternoon chatting and laughing, taking turns buying rounds. Lestrade turned out to be a remarkably skilled darts player, though John steal beat him by a respectable margin. Over the course of the next few hours they went a long way toward making up for lost time and John discovered, to his surprise, that he was able to put the situation with Sherlock out of his mind for minutes at a stretch.

By the time John returned to the flat the sun was just beginning to set. As he turned the corner onto Baker Street, his footsteps on the pavement felt lighter than they had in a long time.


	7. Chapter 7

Three and a half weeks later, they were called to a crime scene. The Yard had tracked the synthetic stones to a distributor and from there to a shop which, by the sort of coincidence that really wasn’t, had subsequently been the target of a break-in.

Not the usual sort of burglary, though, and there were still enough of the stones there that Lestrade had called Sherlock in to identify them.

Sherlock had been practically vibrating out of his seat with anticipation on the way there and John had almost allowed himself to be swept up in it, almost let himself believe that this was the watershed he’d been waiting for. The proof of forward momentum.

(Almost allowed himself to believe things worked like that. Of all people, though, he did know otherwise.)

The reality of the situation hit him full-force as the taxi pulled to a stop in front of the shop. The street was filled with police cars, the area swarming with uniformed officers and plain-clothed detectives. It felt, to John, like unmanageable chaos, too much movement to track at once. Sherlock’s restored presence in his life still felt impossibly fragile. They’d found a balance over the last few weeks, true, but it was tenuous, its balance no thicker than a knife’s-edge. No give to it, no space to let his guard down. If this proved to be too much—

He watched Sherlock pause briefly before opening the door, saw the determined set of his jaw, and felt a surge of sympathetic anxiety make its way up his spine.

He didn’t have it in him to bring Sherlock home again. Knew he’d do it anyway, if he had to. The irreconcilability of that knowledge had been wearing him down for weeks.

He opened his mouth to remind Sherlock that they could always just leave; didn’t get the words out before Sherlock swung the door abruptly open and surged out onto the pavement, moving purposefully toward the door. John scrambled out of the cab and followed him, swallowing down his own nerves with the efficiency of long practise, allowing them to settle like acid in his stomach, a familiar ache.

If Sherlock needed him he’d be there. As ever.

The rest of it, he told himself firmly, mattered less.

John wasn’t sure precisely what he’d been expecting, but it was clear that they’d all prepared themselves for this. The faces that greeted them were schooled into a careful neutrality. John stood well back, surveying the room, while Lestrade briefed Sherlock on the facts—jeweller found murdered, safe opened, cash missing but apparently nothing else—and Donovan sidled up to stand at his elbow.

“Never thought I’d see this again,” she murmured.

“Mm,” John said, distracted. He had his eyes on Sherlock’s face; his gaze was sharp, concentrated, his movements precise. All normal, or near enough, apart from the lines of tension John could see drawing downward from the corners of the pale eyes.

Sherlock dropped to a crouch, balancing on his toes to peer more closely at the edge of one of the glass display cases, snapping at Lestrade to get out of his light.

“John,” he called without turning his head, and John threw a shrug in Sally’s direction before moving down to stand over Sherlock. “See here,” Sherlock said, indicating a scuff mark just at the edge of the display case.

“Yes, I see it.” It was a lie; he hadn’t taken his eyes off Sherlock’s face.

“Three millimetres wide. Make a note.” He flicked his eyes up to meet John’s gaze, then, his expression closed-off, and John clenched his hand against the side of his thigh.

He started slightly at the approach of a plain-clothes officer holding an evidence bag. “Here,” the officer said, holding it out to Sherlock. “From the safe.”

Sherlock unfolded to standing, snatched the bag from her grasp, spilled the small stones onto the palm of his hand. John watched the way Sherlock’s fingers curled around the hard edges of the stones and knew it wasn’t the first time he’d held them. He had a sudden vision of Sherlock bent over the table in Moriarty’s lab, empty-eyed and lost. The thought made him feel slightly dizzy, as though they were standing on the edge of a dangerous precipice, blood roaring in his ears like falling water.

Unbidden, in memory, the feel of the detonator as it had fallen to the floor. The smallest imprecision of muscle; impossible disaster. Three years ago, now, and he could still feel the sharp edges of the plastic casing against the skin of his palm.

Sherlock’s voice brought him back to the present. “Yes,” Sherlock said after a moment. “These are some of mine.” If John hadn’t been looking for it, he would have missed the momentary flexing of the muscles in Sherlock’s jaw. “See here, the striations, where the stone has been resized. Shaped as well. Bevelled edges.”

He dumped the stones on the counter and scowled down at them as though he could force information from them with the strength of his glare.

Around them, expectant silence. It went on for minutes while Sherlock stood, unmoving, and John watched the lines of his back. Waited for the fall, the inevitable explosion.

Over Sherlock’s shoulder Lestrade shifted nervously and mouthed a silent _Anything?_ in John’s direction.

He had a job to do, as ever.

Right.

John swallowed. “Bevelled edges,” he prompted, his voice sounding too loud in the silence of the room. Sherlock’s head jerked up to meet John’s gaze. “What does that tell you?”

Sherlock’s brows drew together in the barest hint of a frown. “It tells me _nothing_ , John, it’s all _pointless_.” His voice was low and hard-edged with frustration. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and took a step closer, the overhead fluorescents casting shadows that exaggerated the planes of his face, twisted the lines of his mouth into near-unrecognisability.

One of Sherlock’s hands settled on John’s left shoulder; John focused on the five acute points of pressure there as counterpoint against the brittle sensation in his chest.

When Sherlock spoke again his voice was sharp enough to force the air from the room. “ _Home_ , John,” and with an abrupt twist of his shoulders he was gone.

* * *

The cab had scarcely pulled to a stop on Baker Street before Sherlock was out the door, leaving John to fumble with his wallet for cash to pay the driver.

Sherlock had spent the ride home sitting silently beside him in the cab, chin resting on his steepled fingers, staring absently out the window at the city sliding by. John had spent the journey trying to restore some semblance of calm to his features.

Not the time to fall apart.

It never was.

It wasn’t until he saw his own hand reach out to open the door to the flat that John noticed how badly it was shaking. By the time he fumbled open the door Sherlock had already flung himself sideways along the length of the sofa, seemingly absorbed in his new mobile, thumbs flying over the keys.

He just needed a minute, John decided. Just a minute to himself, then he’d start assessing the damage, picking up the pieces.

“I’ll just be upstairs, then,” he said, his voice sounding breathy and strange to his own ears.

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said, and when he looked up to meet John’s gaze there was something so terrifyingly distant in his pale eyes that, just for a moment, it seemed to physically stretch the air between them.

Climbing the stairs felt like dragging his legs through deep water. He drew the door almost-closed behind him and slumped on the bed, fisting his fingers in the quilt. There was an uncomfortable warm flush pressing against his chest and throat, creeping down to hang heavily around his ribcage.

He breathed, tried to think, and wasn’t positive he managed either. He felt impossibly tired, heavy down to his bones.

John blinked his eyes open again at the sound of movement downstairs. _I should go down and see_ , he thought, and didn’t move. He could hear Sherlock opening his violin case, the small tremulous sounds of him tuning the strings. The sound didn’t have far to travel but it seemed to come from a great distance off. When the atonal plucking stopped and Sherlock began drawing his bow along the strings the notes wafted up the stairs to hang, brittle and half-familiar, in the space around him.

His chest and throat hurt; something about the way he was pulling the air into his lungs wasn’t right, didn’t fit. He was still too hot; couldn’t seem to catch his breath. With one hand he pulled his shirt up and over his head, an awkward struggle with cloth tangled around his ears, and flung it haphazardly into the corner.

His gaze landed on the few boxes still piled against the wall. He’d unpacked most of them, but there were still a few things he just hadn’t worked his way through, inessential items. He’d never been much of one for transitions; limbo, in any of its forms, didn’t suit him.

John abruptly couldn’t stand the sight of them any longer. He pushed his way off the bed and wrenched off the lid of the top box. It was full of old medical textbooks; he overturned it, the books thudding heavily to the floor in a messy pile. He huffed out a shaky laugh. The second box was just odds and ends, the detritus from his bottom desk drawer: sleeves of photographs, the engraved paperweight Harry had given him when he finished medical school. The dogtags he wasn’t supposed to have.

John pulled them from the box, watching his fingers curl around the chain. His hand was still shaking.

But: no. That was wrong; his hand didn’t shake when something was coming. John leaned against the bed and let his head fall back against it, squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to focus on slowing his breath but the tension in his shoulders was sending red-hot pincers up his neck and before long even the space behind his eyelids was red and dizzying and dark.

* * *

He hadn’t noticed when Sherlock set his violin aside or heard the footsteps on the stairs. Didn’t notice his approach at all, in fact, until he heard Sherlock say his name, low and tentative in the darkness before him. John peeled his eyes open to see Sherlock crouching in front of him, peering at his face through narrowed eyes.

“Something’s happened.” In Sherlock’s voice it was halfway to a question, and when John opened his mouth to answer what came out was a quick, hysterical-sounding giggle.

Sherlock’s reached out tentatively toward the chain still clutched in John’s hand, but he didn’t quite brush his fingertips against it. “I’ve upset you.”

That wasn’t it at all, except in all the ways that it was.

“No,” John said with a shake of his head.

“I’m not going to pretend—“ Sherlock broke off, tried again. “I mean, it’s not—“ He trailed off again, frowning.

The tags felt heavy, heated through with the warmth of his skin. John took two breaths before he spoke again, the words thick in his throat. “I shouldn’t have let you go today. I should have known it would be—“ Too much, he wanted to say, and didn’t.

“John,” Sherlock said, tentatively. “Are you all right?”

He seemed to be having difficulty breathing again. “Not really, no,” he admitted, too exhausted to offer Sherlock anything else. He let his eyes slide closed. “You left.”

“I had the information I needed. All that remained was to work it out. Which I’ve done, just now. I’ve already passed it off.” There was a pause; when Sherlock spoke again, his voice was lower, more thoughtful. “Cleanup is dull.”

When John opened his eyes Sherlock was looking at his chest, the freshly-healed scar there. His gaze slid up to John’s face and held there, the expression in the pale eyes clear and solid and familiar.

“You left,” John said again.

Sherlock took several deep breaths before answering. “Yes.”

They weren’t talking about the crime scene anymore.

Sherlock reached out and wrapped his hand around John’s fist where it was curled around the chain. His hand around John’s was warm and reassuringly solid; John’s next exhale shook from his chest, an abrupt release that took with it a great deal of tension that was so long-held he hardly remembered what it meant not to carry it. He loosened his fist and let the dogtags slide to the floor, twisting his hand to twine their fingers together, and Sherlock huffed out a breath that was somewhere between a cough and a sigh.

There was an odd sensation unfurling in John’s chest, relief and something far less quantifiable.

Sherlock leaned forward to rest his palm gently against the scar on John’s chest, aligning his hand by the mark he’d made over John’s heart. From there, it was just a matter of letting gravity take over, drawing him forward, closing the distance between them to bring their mouths together. John cupped his jaw, feeling the faint throb of Sherlock’s pulse against his palm; Sherlock’s mouth on his was as warm and solid as the rest of him, as undeniably present and alive, the improbable architecture of lips and tongue strange and unfamiliar and, for now, proof enough.

They passed the night together on John’s bed. Sherlock had fallen into sleep, still wearing his shirt and trousers, with one arm draped protectively against John’s waist, their fingers still entwined. Sherlock’s head was pressed against the back of John’s shoulder, his mouth just brushing the edge of John’s old scar, the even pace of his breath against his skin immeasurably reassuring.

The soft current of Sherlock’s breath against his skin was continuous and even, a reminder that, though there were still a great many things a very long way from right, they had the space and time to get there. John smiled into the pillow at the thought and drew their joined hands closer to his own heart, the slight shifting of Sherlock’s body behind him at the movement its own kind of reassurance.

John was content to pass the night this way, lying on his side with Sherlock’s warm, sleep-heavy body curled against his spine. He could feel the gentle pressure of Sherlock’s ribcage against his back as it expanded with the in-out of his breath, the faint thrum of Sherlock’s pulse below his skin, the warm, reassuring weight of his arm. It felt like enough; just the two of them, together, facing the open window while outside the sky lightened toward dawn. It felt like he was the one who had come home.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for character death, psychological/mental health issues


End file.
